A Shot In The Dark
by FF-VII-Apocrypha
Summary: Not everyone is a Vincent Valentine fan. A character study in one act.
1. Chapter 1

Title : **"A Shot In The Dark**" Authors : **Hartley West & Nicholas Simo**

Fandom : Final Fantasy VII

Time Period : Approximately six months after events in

"Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children."

Characters : Vincent Valentine, Marshall (original character)

Synopsis : A character study in one setting.

Warnings : Language, slash reference

Disclaimer: The character of Vincent Valentine and the "Final Fantasy VII" universe are owned and copyright © by SQUARE ENIX CO., LTD. No copyright infringement is intended, and we are not affiliated with, nor endorsed by, Square Enix in any way. No profit is involved. The writing contained herein is copyright by the named authors. Duplication or distribution of this work is strictly forbidden without the express permission of the authors.

Authors' Note: The following story is an offshoot from a novel-length story now concluding in a LiveJournal role-playing community. The original story features a relationship between Vincent Valentine and Reno. The character of 'Marshall' first appeared in that story when Reno ended up aboard the Shera in need of medical care. Marshall blossomed from a throw-away, incidental character into a fully developed, original character quite by accident. We determined that his history made him an interesting foil to Vincent; a prism through which Vincent Valentine can be seen from another angle. After all, with millions of people living on Gaia, the characters of "Final Fantasy VII" most certainly had interactions with persons outside of their circle; they wouldn't have lived in a vacuum. That said, we hope you enjoy "A Shot in the Dark."

**"A Shot In The Dark"**

**Chapter 1**

It didn't happen regularly, but sometimes Vincent Valentine just had to get out and walk. Alone. It was never anything in particular that prompted it, not an event or even a particular mood. Sometimes he simply had to get out of the house, stretch his legs, and wander around outdoors in the night.

This night was no different. It was late summer, and although the days were still quite warm, the temperature dropped substantially after dusk. He'd been alone all evening, doing this and that as he puttered about the apartment. Boredom finally set in, and not being the sort to turn in early just because there was nothing better to do, Vincent decided to go out.

He looked at the clock. A little after ten. Reno had told him he'd be home late, which could be translated as nine o'clock, midnight, and sometimes not at all. Vincent had learned from experience that waiting was a futile thing where the redhead was concerned, so he no longer bothered.

Vincent showered quickly and changed into his now nearly-regulation jeans, boots, and a cotton shirt; a black sleeveless one this time. In case it got colder he grabbed a jacket, a casual black sport coat. He didn't bother to dry his long, dark hair completely. A brisk walk in the night breeze would finish the job quickly enough. He pulled up a pant leg, strapped a holster to his calf, then tucked his pistol into the leather pouch. He was ready to go.

Walking through the apartment, he smiled almost fondly at the debris field he had to step over en route to the front door. It was clear that wherever Reno had gone off to earlier he'd done so in a rush. Clothes were strewn everywhere, there was a wet towel in the hall, and he'd apparently grabbed dinner-to-go from a quick-serve judging by the empty, rumpled bag and soda cup that hadn't quite made it into the kitchen much less the trash can. Vincent would deal with it later. Right now he was restless, and the night was calling.

The night was perfect for walking. Cool, but not cold. The sky was ablaze with the light of a nearly full moon, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky to blot out the stars. Being a weeknight, the sidewalks hadn't been overly crowded. Still, there were a lot of people out and about, perhaps to take advantage of these last remaining temperate evenings before winter choked the life from the land.

It was close to midnight when Vincent passed what was probably the only pub left in Kalm that he'd not yet visited. He hadn't intended on stopping anywhere, but he'd walked longer and further than he normally did on his spontaneous nocturnal jaunts. He was thirsty, wide-awake, and the restlessness that had gripped him earlier hadn't diminished a bit.

A few drinks in a new place might just be the thing.

_Night Flight_ was a happy median, falling somewhere between dive bar and posh upscale. A large, traditional oak bar with brass rails was the focal point, with the typical mirrored wall behind it lined with shelves of liquor bottles and mixers. There were quiet, leather booths with tall backs along two walls, with the rest of the space filled with tables of varying sizes. Music was in the air, the popular songs playing at a level you could hear yet wouldn't drown out polite conversation. Traditional, and cozy.

Roughly half the tables and booths were occupied. Vincent headed straight for the last booth on the right-hand wall, parallel to the bar in the back of the room. He slid into the cool leather seat with his back to the wall, facing the door. An ingrained Turk habit he'd never discarded. Be wherever you can see the most, and never turn your back to a door.

He grabbed the menu from the wire holder and set it on the table, flipping it open to the drink list. He'd only gotten through the first page when a waitress approached. She was an attractive, young-ish blonde, with light brown eyes and a pretty smile. He couldn't see her, however, through his curtain of hair as he read the menu on the table.

"Hi, I'm Tessa, and I'll be your server this evening. What can I get for you tonight?" she asked. The smile got brighter when Vincent looked up from the table at the sound of her voice.

Vincent smiled back. The blonde's grin got wider. "Tequila. Top shelf, neat. A double. And a glass of ice water, please."

"Anything to eat? The kitchen's closed for meals, but we still have appetizers. Your basic finger-food, bar fare," she said.

"Not right now. Just the drinks," he replied.

"Coming right up!" the waitress chirped. She flashed another smile, then headed for the bar well at a quick clip.

_Next, it's 'are you waiting for someone?'_ He shook his head, amused at the thought.

One of the pitfalls of Vincent Valentine going out to a bar alone was his luck at always ending up with the prettiest, youngest, unattached female server in the establishment. First was the friendly smile. Then the _flirty_ smile. Then the thinly-veiled question regarding his 'status'. Over the years he'd employed several techniques to let them down, some with easier landfall than others. It depended on two factors: how much he'd already had to drink, and how obnoxiously blatant the girl behaved.

So far, on a scale from one to ten, 'Tessa' was only about a two-point-five on the blatancy scale, and that coupled with the fact he was stone-cold sober rated her an easy let-down. He wouldn't use the 'sorry, sweetheart, but I don't drive on that side of the road' line. That one was reserved for those earning higher numbers, and after he'd already knocked back quite a few. No, this one would get the easy 'my wife is home with the new baby, and I just needed to get out for a while' routine. That usually toned down the flirt without hurting their feelings. It had the added benefit of making him seem somehow sympathetic, which usually resulted in even better service.

Tessa came back with a brilliant smile on her face and Vincent's drinks on a cork-covered tray. She placed two cocktail napkins on the hard wood table, then set the water glass on one and the double shot of amber tequila on the other. Next came a plate containing two lemon wedges and a small pile of salt. The latter had just upped her tip.

_Here it comes..._

"Will that be all for now?"

"Yes, that's fine," Vincent smiled. "Thank you."

_Wait for it..._

"I'll check back shortly, but in the meantime just wave me down if you need anything. Anything at all," she smiled, batting her eyes ever so slightly. She turned on her heels.

_Wait for it..._

The waitress took three steps toward the bar and then spun around. "By the way, are you waiting for someone?"

With his phantom wife and child tucked snugly away for the evening, Vincent had polished off two more double shots of tequila, served by the efficient, pleasant, but no longer flirtatious blonde. He was just about to order a third when a familiar form walked in the door. Vincent sighed.

The green-eyed, green-haired, trigger-happy medic from the Shera. Marshall.

Vincent waggled a finger to get the barmaid's attention. He held up an empty shot glass and nodded his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Marshall walked into the _Night Flight_ and stopped just inside the door. The familiar sights, sounds and smells were exactly what he needed right now. It had been a long day.

The call had come in to the Shera at around seven o' clock that evening. A skier had hit the slopes outside the Icicle Inn. When it had started to get dark, the skier's sister had informed the staff that he was missing. They in turn, had put in the search-and-rescue call.

Fortunately the Shera had been close, and it was less than forty-five minutes from the time they got the call to the time Marshall had hit the ground. Unfortunately, it was already too late. A snow bank had sent the skier spiraling into a tree. Between the blood loss, the internal damage and the exposure, he had probably been dead long before the call had been made.

Although everyone told him that it was a part of the job that he excelled at, it was that same part that Marshall despised. As the resident medic and coordinator of the search, he was the one who'd had to break the news to the puffy-eyed young woman that her brother was gone.

When his shift had ended at ten o' clock, Marshall had realized that the Shera was close to Kalm. He'd grabbed a shower and threw on a pair of jeans, a grey zip-up turtleneck with a "Highwind" patch on the left shoulder that he had carefully sewn on himself, and a pair of black motorcycle boots. He hadn't been expecting trouble, but had decided to take along his sidearm, holstering the forty-five in the same style of thigh rig he wore when in uniform. He had been caught off-guard before, and the weapon's reassuring weight against his thigh was always a comfort. Catching a zip-line down to the edge of Kalm, Marshall had walked the rest of the way to the bar.

Standing there now, Marshall remembered those weekend jaunts from the ShinRa Medical Training Facility in what used to be Midgar. He smiled as a few memories of the wilder times they'd had there bubbled up to the surface.

Feeling himself relax, he strode over to the bar, and was happy to see the familiar face of Ozzy, the owner and bartender. He grabbed a stool and gave a small wave at the man, who immediately came over with his usual boisterous laugh.

"Heya, doc! Long time no see!" the man practically bellowed.

Fighting an embarrassed flush, Marshall grinned. "Hey, Ozzy. Still hosing the med students with seltzer when they get too rowdy?"

"Sure am. And don't think you're too big for a dose yourself, Mr. Chief-Medical-Officer-of-the-skies," Ozzy returned with a wicked glint in his eye. "How the hell did you swing that anyway? Conk ol' Cid upside the head with one o' those textbooks of yours?"

"Something like that. How about a drink?" Marshall asked, trying to change the subject. "I hope you're still carrying _my_ poison in this dive," he jibed.

Ozzy made a face. "Doc, how you can drink that crap is beyond me. But yeah, I still keep it around, just in case your goofy green ass shows up."

The sturdy-looking bald man with the mustache reached underneath the bar and produced a plain-looking bottle that read, simply, "One-Thousand Needles," and had a picture of a running Cactuar on the label. He handed the green-haired medic an empty shot glass and twisted the cap off of the bottle, setting it down on the bar.

Marshall looked up with an eyebrow raised quizzically.

"Bottle's on the house, Doc. Good to see you around here," the man finished with a slightly softer tone.

"Thanks, Ozzy," the emerald-eyed man responded, pouring himself a drink. "I really needed someplace like this tonight."

He downed the tequila in one swig, slamming the glass on the counter and making a face. Distilled from actual Cactuars, the stuff kicked like a mule. He could already feel the warmth leeching from his stomach to the rest of his body.

With a thoughtful jut of his lower lip, the bartender nodded. "Seems like that's going around, tonight. You're not the only celebrity in here," he said, nodding toward the far corner. "Unless I missed my guess, that's Vincent Valentine over there."

_Great_, the medic thought sarcastically, _my night off, my favorite bar, and the friggin' Reaper shows up_.

He poured himself another shot. _Maybe I'll get lucky and he won't recognize me._

His eyes crossed and focused on a stray wisp of his green bangs. _Okay, maybe I'll get _really_ lucky_, he thought, downing the second drink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Vincent was on his fifth double-shot of tequila, with two more sitting in front of him by the time Marshall downed the first shot of whatever the green stuff was he was drinking.

The gunman regretted not having gone to one of the several bars in Kalm that now kept reserves of the "Blue Death" he drank on hand strictly for him. Not too many people could handle the two-hundred-some proof, sapphire-colored alcohol, but it was the only thing that could give Vincent a buzz without him having to drink gallons of it.

Not only that, he couldn't stand the taste of most other alcoholic beverages. Beer and bourbon tasted so horrible to him that he'd just as soon not drink again, ever, if they were the only choices. Good tequila was the only thing he could tolerate when his blue drink wasn't available, and it wasn't all that much better than the others. Like everything else, he had to drink an assload of the amber liquor to get even moderately intoxicated. That, and he had to drink a good bit of water to wash away the bitter taste that the lemon and salt didn't kill.

What all this meant for Vincent Valentine tonight was—because of the amount of alcohol he had to consume to even realize he was in fact drinking at all, plus the water taste-chasers—he had no choice but to get up and walk right past the green-haired medic. The goddamned restrooms were on the other side of the bar.

Vincent picked up one of the two remaining double-shots on the table and, not even bothering with the lemon and salt ritual, polished it off in one long gulp. He drank an equal amount of water to deaden the bitterness on his tongue, then headed for the men's room. If he was lucky, maybe Marshall wouldn't recognize him.

In the mirror, Marshall saw the dark man stand and quickly glanced at the table he had just vacated. There was no tip, which meant that either the former Turk was outrageously cheap, or he was headed for the men's room. As he approached, the medic hunkered down over his drink, hoping his head was far enough below his collar to hide the green shock of hair.

_Just let him go by me_, he prayed. _Just don't let him recognize me_.

That was when the bell started clanging.

_Oh, Ozzy, please...don't tell me..._ was as far as the thought got before the bartender stopped the raven-haired figure with a quick, "Just a second, sir."

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to have in this fine establishment, two real live heroes," Ozzy boomed. "Doc Marshall, chief medical officer on the Shera."

With a flourish of his hand to indicate the figured hunched over his tequila, he continued, "And Vincent Valentine, who needs no introduction! Give 'em a hand, folks!" He began clapping.

"Stand up, Doc," Ozzy hissed at Marshall through his smile.

Before he turned and stood, Marshall managed to mutter, "Ozzy, you're a dead man."

"Shake hands, lads! Always a pleasure to have such esteemed gentlemen in my bar!" the bald man bellowed for the benefit of the crowd.

_This is why I don't go drinking with Cid_, the medic thought to himself as he smiled for the congregation. He turned toward Vincent, hoping to get the show over with.

Just as Vincent reached the floor behind Marshall, the bartender's tip bell clanged. The man caught his attention and asked him to stop. The next thing he knew, the bartender had announced to the whole fucking _bar_ that he was there. So much for anonymity.

To make matters worse, the bald, mustachioed bartender then put both Vincent and Marshall in an awkward position by requesting that the medic and the gunman shake hands.

_Great. Just fucking great_, Vincent cringed inwardly.

Not wanting to make a scene, coupled with the fact that the six double-shots of tequila and the three glasses of water he'd drunk were becoming an issue of some urgency, Vincent neither protested nor procrastinated. He extended his hand toward the now-smiling Marshall, grasped his hand and pumped it quickly three or four times.

"It seemed like a nice, quiet place when I walked in," he said to Marshall, just over the din of the applauding and hooting patrons. "If you'll excuse me..."

Vincent headed for the restroom, quickly.

The crowd had settled down by the time he exited the restroom, having returned to their drinks and conversations in the meantime. Fortunately, no one bothered the gunman as he strode toward the bar.

The handshake was going to be as brief as it could be while maintaining appearances for the bar's exuberant patrons. Marshall was grateful that the man had _deigned_ to shake hands with him, if only to keep the peace.

The words still burned in his mind.

_"You're an ass, Marshall."_

Still, his choices had been: a) just shake his damn hand and be done with it, or b) cause a scene and get barred from a place he'd been coming to since he was a teenager.

Despite the fact that the bartender had been the one to put him in this position in the first place, he went with option 'a'. Marshall needed this place tonight, more than he cared to admit to himself. There was too much history in here for him to turn his back on it.

Of course, Vincent couldn't resist getting a verbal jab in. _"It seemed like a nice, quiet place when I walked in."_

Just like a vaccination, it stung him like hell, and then it was over. The dark man excused himself curtly, and headed for the restrooms. Marshall sat down, poured himself another round, and slammed it back with a scowl.

_Well, it seems Ozzy will let anybody in, these days_, Marshall thought.

"There ya go, Doc. I got you a handshake with Vincent Valentine. It pays to be friends with the owner sometimes, doesn't it?" the bartender asked, beaming.

"We've met," the medic replied, irritated. "We're not exactly in each other's fan clubs, Ozzy. No more stunts."

The stocky man raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, Doc. Sorry. It's just not every day you get to meet a—"

"Don't say it," growled the man with the emerald-green eyes, cutting him off. "That man is no hero in my book." Glancing up, he caught a stern look from Ozzy. "Don't go into that Meteorfall bit. I know. Call him whatever you like, just not to me." Marshall poured another half-shot.

He regarded the liquid in the glass, sighing. He was about to toss the half-full shot glass back, when he caught long, midnight-black hair in the mirror. Vincent had returned from the restroom.

And he was heading for the bar.

Vincent stepped up to the bar to Marshall's left, crossing his arms and leaning his elbows on the bar top.

"Look," he said, leaning his head a bit closer to the medic to keep his words private, "I know you have a hate-on for me for some reason, and frankly, I'm probably not your biggest fan either. But you saved my friend's life, and for that I'm grateful. I didn't come in here looking for a hard time, Marshall. Just a few too many drinks, and maybe some interesting company."

Vincent leaned back from the bar and adjusted the stool he'd disturbed. "My drinks are waiting. Take care."

When he returned to his booth, the dirty glasses were gone, replaced with a clean one and an unopened bottle of tequila.

Ozzy had been well out of earshot of the conversation, but after years of tending bar, body language and the fact that it was meant to be private gave him an indication of what had been said. He casually made his way over to Marshall, drying out a glass with a towel.

"Doc, I don't know what's going on between you two, but it seems like both of you are here for the same reason," he said earnestly. "Maybe you should talk to him."

"Dammit, Ozzy, who asked you?" the medic sniped back. He caught himself, realizing he had been sifting through old wounds, and that the anger was bleeding into the present. He looked up apologetically.

"Sorry, Ozzy. Look, I'm just not sure I have a lot to say to him."

The bartender nodded knowingly. "I know, kid. But if for whatever reason you're gonna hate that guy's guts to your last breath, I'd say he at least deserves to know why." Ozzy shrugged.

Marshall sighed. Part of it was exasperation. Part of it was knowing that Ozzy was right. This was probably going to end poorly. Valentine always seemed to bring out the petulant child in him, despite himself. Despite how many times he thought he had reconciled the whole thing and made peace with it, the sight of that man set him to seething.

He was pretty sure the effect was mutual.

Still, Ozzy was right. He hadn't decided which way this was going to go as he picked up the bottle of exotic tequila and the shot glass, then started slowly for the booth. By the time he reached it, his mind was a swirling mass of emotions. He almost turned back for the bar without a word, but he took a deep breath and centered himself.

"'Too many drinks' is Ozzy's house specialty," he said quietly, lacking the energy to back the joke up with a smile. He managed a half-grin instead.

"As for company," he paused and looked at the empty seat across from the gunman, "is this seat taken?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Vincent was half surprised and half not when the green-haired young man approached the booth with a half-hearted joke and a question.

The gunman looked at Marshall, then nodded at the high-backed bench opposite his own. "Please do," he said politely.

The medic sat down at the invitation, and the sincerity with which it was offered helped him regain control. He looked across the table at the raven-haired figure for a second, then poured himself a shot. "One-Thousand Needles," he explained. "Cactuar tequila. Kicks like hell, if you're interested." He glanced at the man's current selection.

"It's a bit more expensive than what you're drinking, but it works for people who have a hard time working up a buzz," he said with a knowing look.

Vincent emptied his glass, then set it on the polished wooden table and pushed it to the center.

"They didn't have my usual poison here," he said as Marshall filled the shot glass. "Not many places do. I'm not even sure what it's called, actually. All I know is that it's blue, and it'll floor most men in two shots."

Vincent picked up the glass and held it toward the medic in salute. "Here's to saving lives."

Marshall could not have been more shocked if the gunman had set him on fire. Still, he recovered quickly, and responded with, "I'll drink to that."

_Not to mention irony_, he thought.

He pushed the thought away. There was plenty of time for that later. It was still early yet, and sobriety was proving a vigorous opponent so far. He threw it an uppercut in the form of another shot of the green-tinted liquor. It was still there, but it was wobbling on its feet.

"I'm not sure _anyone_ knows what that stuff is called," he said, remembering Vincent's comment a moment ago. "Ozzy dropped it from the shelf because he got tired of piling unconscious drunks outside after closing." He chuckled for a second, as a memory traipsed by.

"Before _this_," he said, combing a tuft of green hair upwards, "I ended up in said pile my fair share of times."

Vincent put the glass to his lips and tossed back the shot of green liquor. He ran his tongue around the inside of his cheeks briefly to catch all the nuances. "More peppery than I would have thought," he commented, "and quite a few notches up in proof from the pretty gold water I was drinking. Might just do the trick."

He slid his glass toward the medic again. "When that's gone," he nodded toward the bottle Marshall had brought, "the next one's on me."

Vincent wasn't anywhere near drunk, not even halfway to not-quite-sober yet. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly felt the need to get nicely hammered. The dark-haired man still felt restless, but there was something else lurking just beneath the surface. It was nagging at him in a vague sort of way, and all he knew with any certainty was that it wasn't entirely pleasant.

He shrugged off the thought as the re-filled glass was slid back in his direction. "So," he asked, "what brings you here to numb those brilliant brain cells?" The shot of grass-green tequila disappeared quickly.

"I needed to come here tonight," the medic said simply, staring at the glass in front of him. Marshall sighed as the memory of the failed rescue came flooding back. He gulped the burning liquid down, hoping it would take the images with it, then continued.

"This place has a lot of fond memories for me. When I was in ShinRa's med school, a bunch of us students used to hop over here to Kalm for the weekends and raise hell," he smirked. "Ozzy used to keep us in line with the seltzer hose. It was all in good fun, and it was a nice break from the authoritarian teaching staff."

He poured another shot, then continued. "It just reminds me of what it was like to be a kid, with the world ahead of me, and hope..." he trailed off, his face darkening visibly. He sat silently, staring into the glass. It was almost a full minute before he spoke again.

"I lost someone today. I kinda needed that feeling back."

Vincent listened to what the younger man was saying, never taking his eyes off the other man's. Choice of words, tone of voice, body language...all important things, but nothing compared to what you could see in a man's eyes if you only looked close enough.

Whomever had coined the expression that the eyes were the 'windows to the soul' had hit the target on the mark. Part of what had made Vincent the best-of-the-best at what he used to do was the fact that he could read people well. He could tell when people were telling the truth and when they weren't; he could tell when someone had told all they knew, and when they were holding back. It was all in the eyes.

This young man was hurting, badly—but it wasn't just from whatever had gone wrong on the job today. Despite the fact that Marshall was being cordial and a good deal more open with Vincent than he would have anticipated, there was still a distinct loathing for the gunman in those emerald pools.

Vincent pushed the bottle of amber tequila out of the way and reached for the more exotic variety, not bothering to ask. He was buying the next bottle anyway, and this one was well on its way to gone. He poured another shot for himself and dispensed with it immediately.

"I know it hurts," Vincent said, "and at the risk of telling you how to do your job... If you're going to succeed at the business of saving lives, you have to accept that you're not going to be able to save them _all_. It's fucked up, but it's the truth. And if you beat yourself up and guilt over it every time you lose one— because they're too far gone already, or you couldn't get to them in time in the first place—it's going to eat you alive. When that happens, you won't be able to save anyone. Not even yourself."

Marshall managed to quell the firestorm that had swirled up at the man's words.

"No, I know that. But just because I _can't_ save them all doesn't mean that I don't owe it to them to try," the medic said as he poured himself another half-shot. "Coming here was just my consolation prize, I guess. 'Tough luck, doc. Maybe you'll catch the next one. In the meantime, put your feet up and have a drink'."

"Of course you have to try," Vincent agreed, "but that doesn't guarantee you're going to succeed. And I didn't mean to imply that you shouldn't care, or that you shouldn't hurt. You just can't let it rip you apart from the inside. You mourn quickly and quietly, then you move on to the next one."

Marshall sighed and looked around the bar, smiling when Ozzy nodded at him and winked. He grinned and turned back to Vincent.

"Don't you ever feel like you need a recharge from," he paused, thinking, then downed the shot, "whatever it is you do?"

Vincent picked up the empty bottle of One-Thousand Needles, then turned slightly to wave it in the bartender's direction. He set it back down on the table when the bald man nodded at the silent request for another.

The gunman picked up a soggy cocktail napkin and absently fiddled with it. "I suppose you could say I'm recharging now," he said. "I consider myself retired, at least for the time being. Two hard battles inside of two years, and I'm tired. The world is pretty quiet right now, and since going back to my former occupation is certainly not an option, I'm taking a break from everything. Except this," he lifted his empty shot glass briefly.

"I had a considerable stockpile of firearms," the ex-Turk continued, "most all of them rare antiques. Serious collectors are apparently willing to pay a hefty sum for rifles that are thirty years old. Particularly Turk Valentine's rifles." Vincent picked up his empty glass again, swirling it around as if more booze would miraculously appear as a result.

He looked over at the bar to see that the stocky bartender was, thankfully, on his way toward the booth with another bottle of the green tequila in hand. "I gave most of the proceeds to the orphanage in Edge. The rest, I can live fairly comfortably on for a year, maybe longer if I choose to be frugal."

"'You mourn quickly and quietly, then you move on to the next one'," the medic repeated incredulously, shaking his head. It was already a strain to maintain the level of civility he had been, but that phrase and the potent liquor had finally pushed him over the edge.

"Spoken like a true immortal," Marshall stated. "Well, that may work just fine for someone who will live to see the apocalypse, but those of us who _aren'_t going to live forever tend to try and make the time we have here as meaningful as we can."

His hand was grasping the shot glass in front of him and it was trembling with a years-old rage. He looked down and noticed it, and caught himself. "Look, it's just that you're the last person I want to hear from on how to mourn or how to do my job," he said more quietly, but with an edge in his voice.

"Maybe this was a mistake," he said as he regarded the empty glass.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Ozzy the bartender set the new bottle of One-Thousand Needles on the table along with the tab. The bald-headed barkeep seemed about to speak, but closed his mouth instead and went back to the bar. The tension surrounding the booth was thick and palpable.

"Fair enough," Vincent said. "Subject closed." He picked up the new bottle and uncorked it, first re-filling Marshall's empty shot glass and then his own.

_I should have asked for a bigger glass_, he thought wryly.

The gunman rose momentarily. He took off his jacket, tossing it onto the bench as he slid back into the booth. There was a time, not so long ago, when he wouldn't have dared let anyone see his left arm unadorned by the shiny brass gauntlet. Now, he simply didn't give a shit. The micro-thin metal pads on the tips of the prosthetic fingers made a barely audible _ping_ when he rested the hand on the table. With his right hand, he picked up the small glass and knocked back its contents.

"Perhaps it _was_ a mistake," Vincent said while pouring himself another shot, "but do me the courtesy of answering one question before you go. You must have a damn good reason for detesting me as you apparently do. I can see it in those pretty green eyes of yours. It can't be simply because I called you an ass, or offered you unsolicited career advice."

Vincent raised a questioning eyebrow, and reached again for his glass. "You can't possibly do what you do and be that thin-skinned."

When Vincent had revealed the gleaming metal appendage, Marshall hadn't batted an eyelash. He had heard the stories, and had seen it before in person. Being a medic, he had seen numerous prosthetics, and this was essentially no different.

Marshall eyed the drink the man had poured for him and considered what he was about to say. Stalling for more time, and figuring that going _too_ far with the tequila was ill-advised, he turned and grabbed Ozzy's attention.

"_Water_," he mouthed, receiving a nod in reply.

His attention returned to the dark-haired man across from him. Absentmindedly twisting the shot glass around and around on the table, he looked over at him, trying to figure out where to begin.

"I don't hate you. I used to..." he trailed off. "It's complicated."

The gunman was listening patiently, and Marshall was at least grateful for that. He slammed the tequila back, and set his glass back down.

"You and I have a history, although it's one you probably don't even know about," he tried to explain. "Look, I can't promise I'll be able to keep this civil, and I won't make it any more dramatic than it has to be. I'm willing to try to say what I have to say for as long as you're willing to listen."

Vincent wasn't surprised that the medic had stayed instead of taking his leave. The gunman had seen this sort before. Passionate people who've either been hurt or severely disappointed often internalized their anger and pain. It would roost in their heart to spoils and rot, marking their soul with a festering sore that not even alcohol can heal. He was fairly certain he was about to get hit with both barrels, but he wasn't concerned.

Since returning from his long sleep, the ex-Turk had been confronted by enough people already who had reason to despise him, or at least believed they did. Among them were quite a few current Turks, who felt that he'd betrayed 'The Brotherhood' by not returning to their ranks when he came back. When he'd chosen to align himself with AVALANCHE he'd made even more enemies within the ShinRa organization, including its current president.

Aging spouses and adult children of his targets—thanks to Rufus ShinRa's misguided vendetta against him—had approached him on the street, slinging curses and worse at him. They wrote obscene graffiti on public buildings, burned his image in effigy. Fortunately, it had ceased as quickly as it had started. Rufus ShinRa couldn't try and convict him for his murderous crimes; that had been Valentine's _job_, and the Turks were _still_ doing it. Since ShinRa was the law, the only recourse for those who wanted him punished was death by vigilante. When they had discovered that wasn't a viable alternative in his case, they'd finally backed off and left him alone. The fact that he'd helped to save the goddamned planet—not once but _twice_—hadn't redeemed him at all in their eyes, but at least he didn't have to exile himself to some godforsaken, armpit corner of the world to keep them at bay.

Listening to one more angry person who didn't think Vincent Valentine deserved to live for another hour, much less longer than anyone, wouldn't really matter. This kid needed to vent and get rid of the ugly sore marring his soul. If Vincent was the cause of it, there wasn't much else he could do but listen and agree. If Marshall came away from his venting better off somehow, at least Vincent would be able to walk away knowing that there was one less black mark on his own soul and, perhaps, another life rescued.

"Go ahead," Vincent said quietly. "I'm listening." He pushed his glass and the bottle aside.

The tequila had thrown the carousel of Marshall's thoughts into high gear, and he suddenly found himself saying something to the former Turk that he had never imagined he would.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"Let me explain the history part. I was born and raised in Mideel. Mom and Dad were both doctors, and they used to tell me that my first word was 'Stat'," the medic said with a wan smile. "I must have picked up the family gene for medicine, because by the age of ten, I could read and understand the entire medical encyclopedia. I was breezing through school, and it was obvious that I was going to follow in my parent's footsteps, so they petitioned to have me sent to ShinRa's Medical Training Facility."

Marshall poured another shot, and stared into it as he went on. "That's how I found this place. That was also where I met her," he said, his face falling somewhat and his tone growing a bit darker. "I was fifteen when I arrived at the school, and the first few days were absolute hell. I was a lot younger than the rest of the students, and the teachers seemed to expect twice as much from me, seeing as I was some medical prodigy."

He scowled and his voice grew bitter at the memory.

"Then I met Bobbi. She was a third-year student, and took me under her wing. I knew I was just her idea of a pet project, but I was young and I fell _hard_ for that girl," Marshall said with a rueful chuckle.

He swallowed the contents of the shot glass in one gulp, and kept his eyes glued to the table. "To make a long story short, nothing came of it. I was busy blowing my way through the curriculum, and we saw each other in passing, but that was all. She ended up staying on at the hospital..." he managed to get out before a quaver hit his voice. He cleared his throat, then finished the sentence with a twinge of anger in his voice.

"The hospital next to the Sector Five reactor," he growled out through gritted teeth. He collected himself as best he could, wanting to get everything out, _needing_ to, before the memories overwhelmed him and he retreated back into his silent hatred of the man in front of him.

"When I look back on it, in my mind, it's a simple case of doing the wrong thing for the right reason. But at nineteen years old, all my heart knew was that AVALANCHE had murdered my best friend," Marshall said softly.

Vincent pulled the bottle and his glass closer to him. He poured another shot, downing it immediately. It was shaping up to be a long night.

"I'm very sorry about your friend," Vincent offered sincerely. "I hadn't been...awakened yet at the time they took out the reactor, but I did see the aftermath." He poured and drank another shot, then pushed both the bottle and his glass against the wall of the booth. No sense in drinking any more of the stuff; it wasn't really working anyway. "When someone you care about is killed like that, there's precious little difference between a freedom fighter and a terrorist," he quietly added.

There was an obvious, pointed question that Vincent could have asked at that point, but he chose to keep it to himself for the time being. The answer would reveal itself soon enough anyway.

It was abundantly clear that Marshall wasn't finished. The young medic's entire body was tense, the catch in his voice unmistakable, and he hadn't lifted his eyes from the table top for minutes. Vincent leaned forward, crossing his forearms to rest his elbows on the table. Dipping his head slightly, he tried to peer up to catch Marshall's emerald eyes with his own blood-red ones. "I'm still listening," he said softly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Ozzy arrived with a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. Marshall managed a hoarse, "Thanks, Ozzy," as he poured himself a glass and took several long swallows. He wiped his mouth with his fist, and looked into the red eyes before him. The bartender shuffled off to tend to his other patrons.

"I know you weren't there," Marshall said, "but you were later. In fact, I had just graduated a few days after the explosion. I was celebrating in this very bar when I got a phone call from my father." Marshall winced at the recollection.

"He was taking care of a Mako poisoning victim at the clinic in Mideel, and had just met the most unusual group of characters, including one with a flowing red cape and a prosthetic arm. My father was the man who found Cloud Strife and gave you his diagnosis," Marshall explained. The anger was back; he wondered if Vincent cared, or even remembered the incident.

The medic reached over for the bottle and poured yet another shot. He was literally trembling at the exertion of keeping himself from lunging across the table at the man. Only half of the shot actually made it to his lips, and for some reason, this one went down much slower and more painfully than the previous ones.

"I...I..." Marshall stammered before pounding his fist on the table. "Fuck!" His outburst startled several nearby patrons, earning him a warning look from Ozzy. He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and hissed the air out between them.

"It's a big fucking mess in my head, Valentine," he said through teeth that were threatening to destroy each other with the pressure of the clamped jaw behind them. He was beginning to rein everything back in, when the alcohol reached up and flipped a switch.

"Do you even remember him?" he asked, his voice a slow growl.

Vincent recalled the event, but had only a fuzzy recollection of the doctor. He hadn't been involved with the conversation, and had stood in the back of the room against the wall. The gunman hadn't known those people—the AVALANCHE members—but for a few days. He didn't think it polite to be right in the thick of what had all the markings of a 'family crisis'."

"Vaguely," Vincent replied with a shrug. "I wasn't actually involved in the conversation; Cloud's friends were. It seemed like a 'family' matter to me, so I kept my distance. I'm sure Tifa Lockhart appreciated that greatly. She wasn't very happy at my tagging along with them in the first place."

At the response Marshall threw himself across the table and grabbed the gunman by the collar, balling a fist with his other hand. "That was my _father_, you bastard," he snarled.

The red eyes barely wavered as the medic glared into them, and the lack of response leeched some of the fury out of the emerald-eyed man as well. He released Vincent and sat back down, looking at his hands.

"That was my father," he repeated in a whisper.

"When the WEAPONs showed up, they ripped Mideel to shreds. He and my mother helped rebuild that town from the ground up," Marshall said in a daze. He was completely numb now, his voice simply echoing his thoughts like a tape recorder. "I finally made it back home weeks later, after the Meteorfall business. I was _so_ interested in the Lifestream. I went out to see one of the fissures for myself."

Marshall seemed miles away as he went on with his story. "I was standing a few meters away from one when the ground under me caved. I hadn't realized I was standing on a pie crust of dirt over a Lifestream filling. The chunk I was standing on tilted into it. Most of my body was still above-ground, but I ended up head first in that energy."

He stopped and looked up at Vincent, the memory of being immersed in the life of the planet itself was one he always found calming, and he grasped it tightly and continued. "That's how I wound up with these eyes and this hair. It's permanent," he explained quietly.

At this point, Marshall knew that he was going to have to continue, but he needed a break.

"I'll...be back in a second," he said, excusing himself from the table.

Vincent watched as Marshall headed for the bar. Once the distraught medic had settled onto a stool, Vincent turned his gaze to the empty bench across from him. He pursed his lips and let out a silent whistle. He had no idea how to respond to Marshall's tirade, and fortunately hadn't been given the chance.

The young man had stated earlier that he didn't hate the gunman. Noble words, but his eyes and his actions spoke otherwise. Marshall's hostility toward Vincent was positively venomous.

Vincent wasn't planning on budging an inch until he found out why.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Ozzy, this is hard," Marshall said simply.

With a slight grin, the man returned, "Doc, I think that's the first time I've heard you say that about anything. Just do me a favor. If you two are gonna start swingin', take it outside."

"I just can't seem to complete a thought. I pull one up and a half-dozen others come up with it," the medic said, shaking his head.

"Well, do me a favor, Doc. The next time a bunch come up, could they maybe come up a bit quieter? You're spookin' the customers."

Ozzy never failed to bring a smile to Marshall's face, and the one that broke through now was genuine. This place was his sanctuary, however noisy or crowded. His sense of humor re-ignited the pilot light on his sense of reason; the part of him that had accepted and dealt with everything he was now trying to get out.

The part of him that could, conceivably, forgive Vincent Valentine. Or perhaps already had.

"Thanks, Ozzy," he said with a grin.

"What for?" the barman asked.

"Just for being you. You'd be amazed at the miracles that works without you even knowing it." The medic rose from the stool, calling out an order for another bottle of 'Needles before heading back toward that booth.

He was himself again, and there was someone he needed to talk to.

Vincent pulled the bottle and glass away from the wall. If he was going to have to sit and wait for who knew how long, he may as well drink.

He filled the unused water glass nearly to the brim. It was half emptied by the time Vincent spotted Marshall walking back toward the booth. From the look on the young man's face, his chat with the bald man had evidently wound his gears down a bit.

Marshall sat down at the booth again and looked directly into Vincent's red and gold eyes.

"Look, I've been all over the place tonight. You probably think I'm a head case. I guess in some respects I am, but I'm going to try and get this out without all the extra dramatics," he said plainly. He refilled his shot glass, and took the drink in one swallow. "I at least owe you that much," he finished.

Vincent took a long swallow from the tall glass. Maybe in greater quantities and with more frequency, the green stuff might actually work. At least it tasted good.

"I don't think you're a 'head case'," Vincent replied, "and I'm _still_ listening."

The medic heaved a sigh, and poured himself another. He had already lost count of which number he was on, but he was feeling decidedly more mellow, and didn't want to lose that right now.

"Like I was saying earlier, my parents had helped rebuild Mideel, and I was visiting when I had my 'accident'," he said, looking up at the green bangs on his forehead. "It's a hard lesson to learn, but in this world, sometimes disaster breeds opportunity for the unscrupulous. When I had my head dunked in the Lifestream, I was pretty much unconscious. At least, I assume that's what it looked like to the casual observer."

"My mind was somewhere else as I lay head-first in that stuff, "the medic explained. "I was out for several hours, and that's when it happened. One of the local gangs had ridden in to town. It seemed that one of their members had gotten too close to a fissure, had fallen in, and developed Mako poisoning."

His voice became slower and quieter. "They ordered my parents to fix him..." he trailed off as the memory came back. This time however, it was tempered by the fact that he was actually sharing it, and he let it flow from his mind to his mouth without the usual flare of temper.

"When they explained that they couldn't cure a case that severe...they...they executed them both," Marshall said quietly. "I was off in la-la land...I didn't even find out it had happened until later..."

His voice trembled. He cleared his throat and shook his head, then downed the shot. "Anyway, one of the townspeople informed them that I was some kind of whiz-kid that had just come back from med school, so the next thing I know, I'm being hauled out of the 'Stream with a gun put in my face," Marshall said with a flush of anger. It wasn't for Vincent; the scowl was directed off into space, back at the faces of his captors.

"They gave me the same ultimatum: fix their partner or die. I didn't even know that they had already killed my mother and father for explaining that they couldn't. I was nineteen. I was staring down a barrel, and to be honest, I was pretty sure I could do it," he said with a rueful chuckle.

He looked over at the gunman, his eyes wide and sincere. "That was when I started waiting for the heroes of Meteorfall to show up."

As promised, Vincent listened. As usual, he was expressionless while doing so. The gunman finished off the other half of his drink in one long swallow. He pushed the glass away.

"I realize it sounds trite," said Vincent, "but I truly am sorry about your parents. That's a hell of a lot of loss for anyone to have to deal with at one time."

He poured another shot of the Cactuar tequila for Marshall, and poured the remainder into his glass to fill it halfway. With the empty bottle in hand, he turned toward the bar to flag down the barkeep for another. The man was already on his way to the booth with one in tow. When the bald man set it on the table, Vincent slid his tab toward him with a nod. Understanding the gunman wanted the charge added to his tab for the new bottle, the man picked up the paper, cast a concerned glance in Marshall's direction, then went back to his post.

Vincent put the glass to his lips and took a moderate drink. His head had finally arrived in a slightly warm, calm and quiet place, and he wanted to keep it right there for the present.

"I would have been in the Sleeping Forest by then. My self-imposed exile. I would have had no way of knowing. I can't speak for the others; even now, I'm not completely sure what they all did in my absence. I didn't come back until the remnants arrived." Vincent finished off the glass; he opened the new bottle and poured his glass full again. Maybe he wasn't quite there yet, after all.

Though he probably should have, Vincent didn't look at Marshall's eyes when he spoke. He had no idea how his next comment was going to sit with the medic.

"Had I known, I most likely would have been there." Vincent took a healthy swig of the green liquor. "I have something of a reputation for yanking young men with unusual hair out of trouble."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

A half-grin formed on the medic's face at the mention of the unruly green mop atop his head. He wanted to make sure that his next words had the impact he intended them to, and reached across the table to gently grasp Vincent's wrist.

"That's just it. The logical part of me _knows_ it wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

He retracted his hand, placing it instead around the shot glass. He shook his head slowly, before tossing the drink back. "That's why I act like such a lunatic sometimes. I am constantly at war with myself. One minute I'll think I'm over all of this, and the next I want to see heads mounted on pikes, just so I can scream at them as long as I want to for not rescuing my parents...or me," he explained.

"I just wanted you to hear that, in case I lose it again," Marshall uttered, pouring out a half-shot.

Vincent looked up when the hand touched his wrist. The green eyes had mellowed. Their color, softer.

Vincent—who often forgot about his own unnatural irises—had never ceased to be mesmerized by the way their eyes changed, those infused with either Mako or the raw Spirit Energy from the LifeStream. Cloud's did to some degree, and Reno's would fluctuate so wildly when his temper was riled or when he became otherwise upset that there weren't enough names for the colors. But while Reno's and Cloud's eyes were different shades of blue, the ebb and tide of the green was strangely hypnotic. Perhaps only because he wasn't accustomed to it.

"Your logic tells you it wasn't my fault, but your heart still needs someone to blame," Vincent nodded. "That, coupled with my former career, makes me your best option, doesn't it."

The gunman finished off his latest pour of alcohol. "I can't defend what I was before; I wouldn't even presume to try. And nothing I do now, _regardless_ of how benevolent and unselfish my motives or how great the deed, can ever make up for it. There can be no redemption for me. It's simply not possible. I shouldn't even bother trying. But I try anyway. That's the best I can offer at this point."

"Part of it is needing someone to blame, yes," Marshall replied. "But again, that part I can come to terms with. What happened to me wasn't your fault. Oddly enough, it wasn't until I gave up on you all, that Cid actually showed up."

A mixture of emotions played across the emerald eyes as he remembered the final rescue. His face finally settled on a small grin, as he recounted the rest of the story. "I ended up curing the bastard. I actually pioneered the technique they use today for Mako poisoning," he said with a shrug.

"And that was it. They had what they wanted, and I was useless to them. I thought they were going to simply execute me, and after almost a year of non-stop testing and theories and trial and error...I was almost glad, to tell you the truth," he said, the grin still there, but with a grim undertone behind it.

"Instead, they set me up in a cage in the center of town. Everyone else had fled. And the man I cured? He tossed me a canteen and said, 'Good luck, kid'," the medic recalled bitterly.

He looked up into the gunman's eyes for a second. "I know, I'm rambling. I'll get there," he said with an apologetic smirk. "Anyway, I knew no one was coming back. Mideel had just seen one too many disasters. There was too much heartache there for to call the place home anymore. I lived in that cage for almost a month, and I waited and waited to die."

Marshall absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair. "Just a second," he said, as he reached for the bottle and poured himself a shot. "You?" He nodded at Vincent's glass.

"Please," Vincent said, sliding his glass forward. "How did anyone discover you were there?"

"It was Cid. He was just cruising around, and saw me," Marshall explained as he poured another refill for Vincent. "The irony is, that by that point, I had already given up."

The young medic sighed. "Apparently, the Lifestream has an odd sense of humor. I didn't find out until later, but my hair is actually photosynthetic. As far as my stomach knew, I was starving to death. I was processing sunlight to stay alive without even knowing it."

"I passed out when the Shera swooped overhead," Marshall continued, "convinced that I had hit the end of the road and that this was some kind of mirage. I woke up on board, and the rest is pretty much history. Cid's chief medic was about to retire, so he offered me the position. I agreed on the condition that I got to run sickbay _my_ way."

Marshall drank the shot and closed his eyes as he felt the warmth wash through him. When he opened them again, he felt somewhat renewed after going through the whole story with someone else.

"Cid explained the whole story to me, about the remnants and everything that had happened. For the first few weeks, I was downright hostile to him," he said, with a slight twinge of shame in his eyes and his voice. "I couldn't help but think that you all were only 'on-call' when Sephiroth showed up. I was still too wound up with the 'Heroes of Meteorfall' bit to think of you as normal people. I kept thinking, 'Any one of them could have stopped everything that had happened to me'."

The green-haired medic frowned for second, looking away from both Vincent and the table. "I'm not sure, but I think that's always going to stick, way back there in my mind," he uttered. "And like you said earlier, yes, your past makes you the obvious target."

The gunman drank, emptying his glass by a third. "I really am sorry, Marshall, that you got such a raw deal."

The gunman was getting the unmistakable impression that Marshall's hatred of him was a projection of the anger he felt toward himself. Had the medic not been so curious to see a fissure first-hand—the areas of which were well known to harbor unstable ground—the young man may have been home to help his parents _ himself_. Vincent kept the impression to himself. It would likely incense the medic, and Vincent saw no point in doing that now. He was quite certain he was the _last _person from whom Marshall would want to hear such an analysis.

Vincent finished another portion of his drink, then set the glass down. "If venting your anger toward me helps you sleep at night, consider me at your disposal. I'm not sure what else I can say or do at this point. I can't make amends. All I can do is privately atone. And if there's something you want from me, by all means, please ask."

The gunman emptied his glass. "Just for the record, I don't like the term 'hero' any more than I like the term 'collateral damage'," he remarked. "While the moral implications are certainly different, they're both incredibly dehumanizing."

"That's just it, though," Marshall said, looking into the man's eyes. "You sit there, dispassionate, and tell me you're atoning. But people like us can't change _who_ we are. You can't simply put down the gun and walk away, any more than I could put down the stethoscope. We're forged in the fires of what happened to us, and what we did. We're branded."

He glanced down at the prosthetic arm for a second, then returned his gaze to that pale face, framed by a halo of darkness. "For as long as I live, there will always be someone to save. For as long as _you _live, there will always be someone who needs killing."

Vincent briefly followed Marshall's gaze down at his left arm, immediately returning his eyes to the medic's.

"So what you're telling me, is that you don't believe it's at all possible for a man to change?" Vincent asked.

"You said it yourself. The term 'hero' can be dehumanizing," the green-haired man retuned, still holding Vincent's gaze. "We're not allowed to _be_ men. Too many people depend on us to be who and what we are for us to have the luxury of changing it."

Marshall shook his head, and glanced over at the bartender in thought. "If I were to resign my position on the Shera, and go into...farming, for example, that's just a job description. If 'Farmer Marshall' came in here for a few drinks, and Ozzy over there started having a heart attack, it's not like I could simply look at the patrons and say, 'Oh, nothing I can do. I'm a farmer now'." The medic reached for the bottle of 'Needles. He poured himself another shot, holding it up to his chin as looked across it at the sniper.

"If someone showed up with plans for wiping out humanity and had the power to enact them, could you turn your back on everyone? Would you simply let the world and the people you know be swept away? Or would you take him down?" Marshall asked.

"I'd take him out without a second thought," Vincent replied quickly, "but that's not a valid comparison to what I used to do. Blowing away someone with the power to end civilization, and blowing away a man because he looked sideways at your boss and you were instructed to do so aren't remotely the same thing. No, I _didn'_t put my guns down. I just made a conscious decision to change how I use them."

The medic raised an eyebrow at the response. "I suppose, in a way, that makes you luckier than me. I don't get to pick and choose like that. If someone ends up on that table, I do my job, regardless," he said. He thought for a second and a wry smile creased his face.

"Actually, I guess that makes me _more_ similar to you, prior to this reformation of yours. Neither one of us asked who or why, we just _did_," he mused. "What angers me is that when _I_ don't ask who or why, I'm still saving a life. When _you_ didn't ask who or why, someone died."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"If nothing else, this 'reformation' of mine, as you call it, puts a lot fewer people in the morgue," Vincent replied. "I would think you'd be happy about that." His patience with the green-haired man on the lofty pedestal was wearing thin.

He grabbed the bottle and re-filled his glass, then slid the bottle back in Marshall's direction. "I had something profound happen to me, so obscenely horrible that you can't even _begin_ to comprehend it. It changed me, irrevocably. I no longer kill indiscriminately. When they show up, I take care of the bad guys so people like you can live safely in your little glass houses."

Vincent took a large swallow of the liquor that was now becoming tasteless and hadn't yet nicked his brain in the slightest. "Let me ask you a hypothetical question, Marshall. You keep saying over and over again that you're all about saving lives. What if you _hadn't_ gone traipsing off to take a peek at the fissure, and you _had_ been there when those thugs approached your parents? What if you'd been armed, and had the opportunity to take them out before they snuffed out your parents' lives?"

The dark-haired man paused for the briefest moment to bring himself down a notch, and failed. "I _know_ that you know how to handle a firearm. If you didn't, Highwind would be missing a fucking foot right now. Would you have been so sanctimonious then? Or would the fact that you could have done something to prevent the death of people you cared about been overshadowed by your dedication to do no harm? Wouldn't the fact that you could have prevented your own tragic loss have changed you in some way? I _was_ a killer. Past tense. I don't deny that, and I don't ask for anyone's forgiveness, including my own. But what happened to me in those fucking labs _did_ change me, and I don't just mean _this_."

Vincent threw a sharp glance down at the device that had been installed to replace his severed arm. "I'm not a cold-blooded killer, Marshall. Not anymore. These days, I even carry a reminder with me, just in case something happens that might make me forget that."

The gunman stood, then propped his left foot up on the bench. He pulled his pistol from the ankle holster and fairly slammed it on the table. "Look familiar?" Vincent's pistol was a forty-five, with the medical red cross emblem embedded in the grip. A token from the medic for the quick action Vincent had taken to save Reno's life before he was taken aboard the Shera.

The former Turk pulled the leg of his jeans back down over his boot. Sliding back into his seat, he picked up his glass, drinking slowly to buy time for his heart to stop pounding.

Marshall regarded the gun on the table for a second. He looked up, gazing defiantly at the sniper. "If you think I haven't had to kill before, you're wrong," he stated plainly. His face twisted into an ugly mask of rage and hatred at the mention of his family's murder.

"If you think for one second that I wouldn't have blown away the son of a bitch who killed my parents, you're wrong. How fitting that the analogy you throw back in my face is another example of killing to protect someone. You're damn right I would have shot that fucker down," Marshall growled, "and I would have walked away from it knowing that I did what I _had_ to do."

"What _you_ did," the young medic seethed, "was kill on command and without question. The only time I have ever pulled the trigger with a human being in my sights was when they were endangering the life of another person. _Not_ because they were 'in the way'. And if you think I didn't spend a week after the first time I killed someone puking my guts up, think again. Don't tell me about glass houses and try to turn this around on _me_. You want me to drop the bit about your past? Well, I can't! Because the _one_ time in my entire fucking _life_ that I ever needed a cold-blooded killer like you, you didn't show, goddamn it!"

And suddenly, there he was. Nineteen again. Trapped, scared, and finally, disappointed. Tears started to shimmer against the background of vibrant green, as he sat there with his face contorted with all the anger he had been trying to contain since it had happened. "I hate myself for ever having needed someone like you!" Marshall raged on. "Why do you think I carry my own?" He ripped an identical sidearm out of the thigh holster, slamming it onto the table next to its twin.

"The doctor in me hates you for killing people, the child in me hates you for _not_ killing people when I needed you to, and the adult in me has already accepted everything and forgiven you. So where does that leave me?" he asked quietly. "When do _I_ get to move on?"

Vincent took a deep breath and his voice quieted. "That leaves you a very bitter, very confused young man," he said, calmer now, "and I wish more than anything that I knew how to help you." The former Turk stood, grabbing his jacket as he slid out of the booth.

"We're talking in circles, Marshall," Vincent said as he put on his jacket, "and nothing I can say is going to make you feel any better." He reached across the table and picked up the pistol the medic had given him some months before. Leaning over, he tucked it back into its holster. "I'm closing out the tab. I need some air."

Vincent started toward the bar to pay up; three steps away he turned back. "You get to move on, Marshall, when you forgive yourself because you _weren't_ there to help them. Not a day sooner."

Marshall holstered his sidearm against his thigh as he stood up from the table. He wiped his eyes quickly and took a deep breath through his nose. As Vincent stood there, those eerie red eyes taking in every move the medic made, Marshall slowly approached the sniper.

He held the gaze from the embers burning in the former Turk's eyes with the ocean of green in his own. Finally, softly and sincerely, he spoke. "Then please, tell me how you forgave yourself? You did it. Why am I so stuck?" he asked.

"I _haven't_ forgiven myself," replied Vincent. "I haven't even tried, because there's no point to it. It won't bring those people back. What I _did_ do was promise myself I'd do everything in my power to not be that person anymore. There was no forgiveness involved."

Vincent dragged his fingers up through his hair to chase stray bangs from his eyes. His emotional temper flare of moments before was gone now, and his features softened. So did his voice. He put his hand gently on Marshall's shoulder.

"You really have nothing to forgive yourself _for_, Marshall, except in your own mind, "the gunman said. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was nothing more than rotten, fucking bad luck and bad timing. If you _had_ been there, they most likely would have killed you, too." Vincent removed his hand from the medic's shoulder, then ran his fingers through his hair again.

"I'm not sure how you're supposed to get un-stuck, Marshall," Vincent continued. "Survivor's guilt isn't easy to shuck off. If you believe in fate, maybe you were _supposed_ to go to the fissure that day so you, at least, would survive. So at least a little piece of both your parents could live on, in you."

The ex-Turk crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the floor. Shaking his head, he said, "I don't know, Marshall. I'm not a shrink, and I'm not a philosopher. I just know you can't continue to mentally and emotionally bludgeon yourself for something that wasn't your fault and that you can't change. It'll corrode you from the inside out until there's nothing left, and then you'll be of no use to anyone." Vincent lifted his chin, shifting his blood-red gaze from the dingy floor to the medic's jewel-green eyes. "And _that_ would be a tragic waste of a good, decent man."

The hurt child in the medic had finally been laid to rest and had been told what he'd needed to hear. Marshall found himself dizzy with the emotional rush that played through him, but managed to keep his face calm. "Vincent," he began, soft eyes locked onto the raven-haired man's, as if the liquid green could wash over the blazing red and quiet some of the fire that burned behind them.

"I don't know if this will mean anything, but for what it's worth, _I_ forgive you," Marshall said quietly.

It didn't escape Vincent that, for the first time since they'd met, Marshall had called him by his given name. It felt somewhat symbolic, like he'd been promoted, upgraded from 'killer' to 'person' in the young man's eyes.

It also wasn't lost on Vincent the profound, unexpected impact Marshall's words had on him. His eyes misted over. Not a single soul had ever uttered those three words to him in the context of his brutal past. Even if they never crossed paths again, Vincent Valentine would always remember the young man with the bright green eyes and the equally vivid hair. The first and only person who'd ever offered him absolution.

Vincent offered his right hand to the medic. "Thank you," he said, simply and quietly.

Marshall took the offered hand and clasped his other hand over both of them. He stared at the gesture as he spoke, almost lost with the simple but powerful act. Finally, he looked up.

"Thank you, too," he said simply. During the handshake, he had caught a glance at his watch, and sighed through a grin as he realized it was time to go.

"I have to get back to the ship and try to catch some sleep before my next shift," he explained. "You take care of that redhead, okay?" he said with a smile.

Vincent nodded, and for the first time that evening, offered the other man a smile. "You take care of you. See you around, Doc." He slid his hand from Marshall's and stepped away slowly.

The gunman went to the register. He paid off the tab, leaving a generous tip, then left the bar. Taking a deep breath of the cold night air he started briskly for home, his footsteps—and his soul—much lighter than when he'd left.


End file.
